


Sharp enough

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbrey Ryswell and Brandon Stark have a stolen moment. </p>
<p>Written for the <a href="http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/2421.html">Game of Thrones Kink Meme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp enough

Barbrey rides to Barrowton, unconcerned really if anyone sees, because her thoughts are wound around Brandon Stark’s tongue and prick. She digs in her heels, hearing the horse grunt and feeling its muscles tense beneath her thighs. She rides a-spraddle, eschewing the ladylike sidesaddle that dear sister and the other lady cousins affect. It’s so much more _efficient_ when haste, rather than fashion, is the order. It’s a short ride, really, if you’ve the right horse, and the one that she’s stolen from her father’s stables is just right for her purposes, a palfrey intended for one of Lord Ryswell’s benefactors. 

She doesn’t enter Barrowtown proper; instead she heads to the assigned meeting place that they’d agreed upon, back straight, forcing her face out of the smile that threatens to soften her features, so narrow and sharp. _Birdlike_ , her mother had always said, and Barbrey likes to think of herself as a hawk, an eagle, all shrill cries, swooping attacks, and grasping talons. And where Brandon is concerned, that might as well be the truth. 

He lolls under the half-shade of a wild oak, clad in roughspun and riding leathers, his hair disheveled, hanging in his eyes. He peers out at her as she approaches, her sure footsteps cutting through the grass, the mount trailing behind her, its labored breath after her harried ride steaming in the cool morning air. 

He’s holding a sword, a recent acquisition, and he toys with it, spanning it back and forth so that it catches the sunlight that is just beginning to creep over the world, and a gleam catches Barbrey’s eye, blinding her temporarily, and when she cries out, Brandon grins. When she clasps his hand, squeezing it against the pommel, the grin turns feral and he pulls her against him, hand grasping her waist, the other holding the sword before her. 

“Impressed?” 

She frowns, sneering a bit. It’s all a game, of course. “Just old iron,” Barbrey returns. “Did you find that in a field somewhere?”

“A field indeed. A gift from my Lord Father.” He holds it up, at her eye level, and she can see at this distance the fine work that has gone into its creation. “A virgin blade,” Brandon says with an insinuating note in his voice. “Sharp enough to shave a woman’s cunt.” 

“Is that so?” She laughs then, throatily, more amused than offended. Her back pressed to him, his hand flat against her stomach, she can feel his stiffness, just beginning, firm against her. It only amuses her more. “And you prefer lord’s toys to women’s cunts?” 

Brandon pauses, and for a moment, she fears that her easy way with words, her unabashed vulgarity, has scandalized him. But he roars with laughter, and the hand that had spanned her waist graps her breast, teasing the nipple through the rough wool of her riding costume. She turns her head, her body, still restrained by his grip, facing front, and her lips fumble for purchase a bit, teeth grazing his chin, nipping at the bony planes of his face. When she’s able to take hold of his lip, the sharpness of her affections causes him to gasp, and the sword falls to the ground with a dull clatter. 

“Come then,” he says, low in his throat, tweaking her nipple until she cries out from frustration and pain. It’s not until they’re on the ground, soft grass against her cheek, the rough scrape of her lord’s beard against the other, that she is able to feel a bit of release. Brandon’s hands fumble with her voluminous skirts, cursing a bit at the confines of her costume, and when he finally manages to put a hand between her legs, she’s grown quite wet. 

He thrusts fingers inside of her, unconcerned with playing the tender lover to this harsh, strange woman. He doesn’t love Barbrey, would never be able to love someone who is all angles, all sharp corners and prickles, but he is unable to pull back when she near s him, knowing that what they do is disgraceful, unbecoming. But he no longer cares, if he ever did at all. 

As he prods at her clit with his thumb, he feels a shiver go through her, under the pads of his fingers, under the weight of his body. She refuses to cry out, to give him at least that, her eyes locked with his, her mouth set in a determined rictus that does not tell of pain or pleasure, joy or shame. _Inscrutable bitch_ , he thinks with a good deal of affection, and when he bends to the pulse of her body, she shudders, she comes, fingers scrabbling in the grass at first, then fumbling towards his wrist, taking hold of it so that he is held inside of her. And even though she’s spent, she is so warm and wet and lovely, and he does not begrudge her this small attempt at assertion. 

Barbrey eyes the stiffness in his breeches, his cock pressing against the buckskin of his riding leggings, and a feral grin creases her face. “Sharp as your sword, Lord Brandon?” she muses, her breath beginning to still, but her voice still harsh. 

“Sharper, Lady Ryswell,” he rejoins, permitting her to unlace him, to tease at him with her nervous fingers, before he bends over her slender form, pressing her to the earth, crushing her into the mossy earth beneath the sheltering tree. He hopes, in those moments, to see her undone, but there is only anticipation on her face, something like hunger gleaming in her eyes, something like desperation in her hands that clutch and claw, something like triumph in the low moan that escapes her lips. 

The sword lies forgotten in the grass, speckled with dew.


End file.
